Friday, December 30, 2005

My 2006 Resolutions

It seems that the NYC comedian community can not get enough of my blog. It's crazy how these young men look up to me both comedically and spirtually. It's alot of pressure for a young woman, like myself to have squeezed upon her, but I think I handle it like I handle everything else with grace, poise and class.

So here it is boys, one last post for 2005.

1) I resolve to grow 5 inches in height.

2) I resolve to inherit my grandparents' house even if it means enslaving my little I mean raising her.

3) I resolve to attain superpowers by being exposed to radiation or some other crazy scientific mishap and then fight crime in fetching outfit. I'll have a secret identity. By the end of the movie, I mean my first month of fighting crime the truth about my double life will become apparent to all my friends and family. My crime fighting persona will morph into a sexy roll play game. I'll have super orgasms.

4) I resolve to break my mother until she accepts me for the tom boy that I am. This is on the list every year, I think 2006 is my year people.

5) I resolve to resolve my inner conflicts.

6) I resolve to speak Spanish fluently so when I start the revolution I can say, "Viva La Revolution!" and mean it.

7) I resolve to end writing this list.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Energy Plan

Financial news reports stated that oil and gas futures were down this week due to the relatively warm temperatures in the Northeast in Midwest. Investors believed that heating oil and gas consumption would be down. After hearing this a solar powered light bulb appeared over my head.

My genius idea:
I figure if we want to save money on energy in the long term we need to burn all the fossil fuel we can now, thereby expediating global warming which will inturn deminish our need to heat our homes. Also, if we use up all the oil and gas there won't be any left to sell which means none to buy. That's savings that you'll be able really see.

OK Will, I'm Posting

Will McKinley gave me a hard time for only posting one sentence yesterday. He's all, "One sentence was all you could come up with in 48 hours!" First off, it was two sentences, three if you count the title. Secondly, I'm an artist, Will. I have to wait for inspiration to visit. With all the holiday travel and the rain inspiration has been stuck in gridlock. So get off of inspiration's back. Not to mention "smallhands_ick" readership is down this week. My Aunt isn't even reading and she usually reads everyday. I'm sure she's pissed at me for something I did at Christmas Eve dinner. I was really at my obnoxious apex Saturday evening and that was before I started drinking. Let's put it this way WITHOUT demystifying the myth of Santa I almost made my seven year old, orphaned cousin cry. She didn't actually shed a tear and I really think she was faking the whole being upset thing for attention. Which is bullshit. If she wants attention she can write bad jokes and get up onstage and tell them. I tried cheering her up by informing her that when our grandparents die she's first in line for the house.

Anyway, Will wants a post, so here we go. But if you find it sucks blame Will.

The lesson I learned in 2005 is if you want to loose weight and save money, cut out food from your daily routine. An empty stomach requires less alcohol to get that drunk effect so many of us enjoy. Thereby saving money and cutting back calories.

Further, this week marks the one year anniversary of the Tsunami, which of course reminds me of my own misfortune. At the start of 2005 I helped out a comedy Tsunami relief benefit by timing the performing comedians' sets, when they reached their time limit I'd shine a light in their eyes so they would know to wrap up thier set and get the fuck off stage. I landed this volunteer position because I had been sleeping with the benefit's producer. You'd think sleeping with the producer would have gotten me a set on the show, instead I was relegated comedian blinder. Wow! How bad at sex am I? Or perhaps I'm just not that funny in bed.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Evil Capitalist Pigs

Someone dropped a bag of diabetes on my desk this afternoon. It came in the form of carmel covered popcorn.

Monday, December 26, 2005

My New Nickname

Can you believe this 89 year old woman--my grandmother

Called this 28 year old girl-- me-- a "Shit Ass?"
Well, she did. And I'm not going to pretend it was completely undeserved. I did challenge her to a push-up competition. But now, the whole family has taken to calling me a "shit ass."

But it was in the back of my parents' car when she told me, "I don't know nothing about nothing" that I realized I had found my new comedy partner. Look for us this Spring, after she gets back from Florida, hosting a comedy show near you.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Very Merry, Rachael.

You guys hear about the War on Christmas? Apparently, the troops Rumsfield will be removing from Iraq are going to be redeployed at the front lines of the North Pole. Until Santa denounces all gods but the one true lord, The US Dollar, America wil not yeild.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Why Jews Don't Make Good Santas

My mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I told her headphones. She said, "No, I don't want to buy that."
"OK. How about a bottle of vodka?'"
"Box of Wine."
"OK, Mom. Why don't you tell me what you want to get me and then I'll ask for that."
"Blazers. You should ask for blazers, you're going to be thirty in a year and half and you'll need a blazer."
During this transit strike New Yorkers should ask themselves what would Jesus do. Well, maybe not Jesus but what might Jesus' biggest fans, the Italians do. They'd stay home and stay warm.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Not Much

It's late and I have to bike to work tomorrow, so that I than can take a cab to Port Authority, in order to go to the doctor's in NJ, where I'll meet my father, who will lend me the car, so that I can drive back to lower Manhattan, where I'll pick up my bike, and drive it back to Brooklyn so that I can ride my bike to work the day after tomorrow hopefully typhoid free, so this post will be brief.

Soon to come "The Parenta Code" and "My Mother as Santa."

Enjoy the strike.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

I'm no Slyvia Plath

Poverty sucks. My gas got turned off, so now I have to learn how to tie a noose.

Monday, December 19, 2005

More On Smallhands

Disproportionately small hands are sickening. However, tinie tiny amputated hands are fine. There's no context to make them disproportionate and therefore horrifying. Though, a person with just stumps where their hands should be is a grotestque freak.

Yeah I'll go out on that limb. I'll risk offending handless people along with the diproportionately small handed ones. I'll write that possible hurtful, judgemental statement. I'm an artist and I stand-by my opinions and convictions.


Horoscope Addicts Anonymous (Or not so anonymous in this case)

My horoscope reading started casual. Once a week I'd log onto to read the synopsis of the upcoming episode of "The Nanny." Then I'd click over to the horoscope section. Harmless really. I didn't see anything wrong with reading a horoscope here and there. I mean, my father used to read me my horoscope from the Star Ledger on Sundays when I was kid. Don't get all freaked out. It wasn't every Sunday just every now and again, and at that time I didn't even pay it much thought.

At some point in my life a friend turned me onto where they'd email you your horoscope everday. Even then, though I was still in full control. I didn't rush to my inbox to see what the day had in store for me. But then I started having major boy trouble. I tried seeking advice from friends and family but no one knew what he was thinking, no one knew what I should do. I began reading seven, eight, sometimes nine horoscopes a day trying to find the prediction I like the best. Desperate for information and control over the uncontrollable I began reading his astrological forecasts as well.

I hit rock bottom when a librarian found me passed out under the "Birthday" book. The heavy hardcover book had fallen on my head knocked me out. I was taken to the ER where I received 2 stitches. I was a mess. That's how the universe works though. After the conk on the head my eyes couldn't focus on text. My friends, the blessings they are, refused to read to me.

I got sober. I realized there's no santa there's no god, and there are no planets other than Earth.

Friday, December 16, 2005

What I Worry About

I don't know that I'm actually high strung as previously posted. Certain things get to me while others things roll off my back as if my back were made of the material that coats windshields, so the rain beads up and rolls away, which may explain why my back has been feeling stiff lately. Example, I may or may not have handed the lease to my apartment in on time. Which means I might have to find a place to live in two weeks or have a court battle on my hand. Oopsy. And oopsy is the extent of my concern. This is only the second time I've thought about my possible plight. This past week at work I've taken lunches that have exceeded an hour and half. It never crossed my mind that I could get caught and fired. Further, there wasn't much concern if I did get fired.

Meanwhile, Jack's voice and tone was weird when we spoke on the phone today. I kind of lost it and called 7 friends. Yes, seven different people to try to decode the meaning of his unusual vocal quality. If Jack doesn't love me I'll still have food, shelter and clothing. All I won't have is Jack, and that won't kill me. And yet, that is what I waste my energy on. He could just be coming down with a cold for god's sake.


I'm such a fool, sans the clowning skills.

May this holiday season, find you alone, friendless and suicidal.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

A cousin of mine dropped out of College. The family was very supportive saying, "Hey college isn't for everyone." So I quit my job because "Hey, work isn't for everyone."

Wednesday, December 14, 2005


Funniest part of the piece I read last night:

...Next thing you know it’s friggin’ Christmas Eve. Me and my Portland pals are on our way to my aunt’s house in NJ for Christmas Eve. My grandfather arrives sporting his new, “pity me” eye-patch, "Those son's a bitches blinded me". Instead of pity my family makes pirate noises behind his back all night. My father’s youngest sister comes dressed in hospital scrubs. No, she’s not a nurse, or a doctor. In fact she doesn’t work in a hospital at all. She’s in school for medical billing. And when I say in school, I mean taking courses over the internet. My grandmother’s telling my friends dirty jokes. And we’re all getting drunk. Welcome Oregonians, to a typical Italian/American NJ Christmas. Have another 12 pounds of pasta.

Quote it

The eatery around the corner from me had a sandwhich board that read, "The best damn food in the neighborhood period." I thought that's redundant. You shouldn't write out the word period and then punctuate the sentence with a period. That's double sentence stoppage. Instead, I think you should put quotes around the punctuation so that the reader knows to say the punctuation. "The best damn food in the neigborhood '.' " Unless of course they mean period as in a segment of a hockey game. But that doesn't make much sense. Or a women's period, but that's just unappetizing. Or perhaps they meant in a period of time. Though, that's the kind of negative thinking that runs a business into the ground.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Holiday Brainstorming

People who don’t actually write have suggested that writers should write what they know. I found this advice pretty lame. This past weekend I tried writing what I know for a very special Holiday Chicks and Giggles I'm performing at this Tuesday. These were some of my ideas for a story.

The Christmas Ninja. Which really isn’t about a Ninja. I don’t know anything about Ninjas. But I thought that title sounded better than the Christmas 3rd Degree Black Belt in the Style of Issin-ryu Karate. The story was of a young female black belt who rescues Santa from a bunch of rabid elves who had been bitten by an infected Reign Deer. In the end the Elves receive rabies shots and all the toys get delivered, but the children reject the materialistic gifts. Instead they embrace the gift of Zen Meditation in honor of The Christmas Ninja.

A Jersey Wonderland. In this tale a Jewish/Italian family accidentally set their house on fire when they absent mindedly place the Menorah too close to the Christmas tree. Oopsy. Hanukah is so late this year that it partially happens next year. In the end the family learns that interfaith marrirages are dangerous. They come to understand that neither Jesus nor the Macabees ever really wanted tolerance. They wanted fame and glory and to get on Dr. Phil. So the parents get a Get and a Catholic annulment, just to make sure. The children, emotionally and physically scarred, give up monotheism all together and take up Zen Buddhism. Ironically, several years later they accidentally set their apartment on fire when they reach a state of Zen and leave the incense burning.

The Release. It seems that a woman has lost her ability to fully orgasm even when masturbating. Yes, truly a tragic tale. And just when our protagonist is about to give up and join a nunnery she finds that Santa has left her marijuana in her stocking. From then on she’s able to fully relax and experience the true meaning of Christmas, and abandon her accidental Tantric Zen sex technique.

Corporate America Chokes on a Fruitcake. The Temps stop blogging and cease making long distant phone calls and lead a workers' revolt. Eventually, all governments topple. Each and every god in the universe smile down on the human race because finally the humans get it.

Exactly. Writing what you know is stupid. Instead, I’m going to write about a girl who writes a short story in the hope that if she completes the story said story will come true in real life. Kind of like the movie Delirious with John Candy. Stealing material is how to write successfully.

Friday, December 09, 2005

More Advice for the Ladies

Listen, women--I mean, read, women. Do not go and sleep with a guy unless he wines and dines you; unless he begs and cajoles you; unless he puts superhuman effort into bedding you. If he does those things then you may partake in the sex.

No, I have not just stepped out of a time machine from 1870. The fact is all men hate themselves. And so if you sleep with one merely because you like him or find him attractive they will think something is very wrong with you and probably won't bother putting much effort into the sex. Why should he? You're the freak that likes him. Weirdo. However, if you make him work for it, buy you things, take you places, compliment you, pretend to listen to what you are saying, then he'll say to himself "I've tricked her into liking my sorry ass. She's sleeping with me because I've worked."

OK not all men are self-haters, perhaps it's just the men I know. I'm sure if you find a guy who isn't an actor, or muscian, or comdian or a writer, or a painter, you probably could just sleep with that fellow solely on the basis of attraction or affinity. For example, if you met an accountant. Accountants probably like themselves. They save people money. I'm sure they say to themselves at the end of day, "I just got the government to give people their money back. Gee, I'm a swell guy. A girl would do alright to date me. Or even have a one night stand."

So I guess I'm saying (pardon--typing) that you shouldn't sleep with men that I know.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

AFL-CIO...not quite

I just wanted to mention how I love a good strike, especially when it doesn't involve atheletics. I'm very excited about the possibility of a strike in NYC by the MTA workers. Go get 'em guys! And yes I'm serious on this one.

Phone Tap

Do you ever think a wrong number is not actually a wrong number? But instead some nefarious person or persons trying to record your voice saying certain phrases and words which they will then edit together to frame you for some crime they'll be committing.


I don't have any jokes for the holiday season. So I've refashioned some jokes I've already written for this time of year. Here it goes: I hate when Santa breaks up with me. Bastard. Fuck Santa, man. So emotionally unavailable.

Yeah, I guess it's not the same.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Behold this

Oh my god, my hair is so big right now. Ah screw it. I'm a comic it doesn't matter. If I were beautiful I'd be a secretary.


Yesterday I got a little huffy about my stormy past with Gabe. Apparently, he reads my blog and he called me last night to talk things out. He apologized for any insensitivity he may have shown in the past and was hoping that we could begin to heal the wounds we've both suffered. He's hoping we can begin with professional civility which could blossom into an acquantanceship which could mature into buddydom which could maybe one day expand into friendship. I told him, the future is unknown and life is long which means anythings possible. I continued, "Hey, maybe one day we might even work together." He said, "I'd like that very much."

And right before we hung up he said, "Your Jack is very lovely, "
"Yes, I know."
"You're right, though, the future is unknown and life is long as the Dire Straits sang, 'It's just that the time was wrong.'"

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Superman Flying Circles Around Venus

I think for Jesus' birthday this year I'm going to throw him a roast.

So I fell hardcore off the horoscope wagon at the beginning of this month. I hadn't read a horoscope for about 2 months and then... I don't know-- Dec 1st rolled around and splat! Hurled off the wagon. I visited Susan Miller's for my December horoscope. Below is an excerpt:

There is also the possibility this month that an old flame may call to ask you out, possibly for New Year's Eve. If you suffered a painful breakup with this person, think twice about accepting. With Venus retrograde...

If Gabriel Byrne thinks he's gonna just walk back into my life after giving me that bogus number years ago he best think again. There is no way I'm leaving Jack for his over the hill, Irish, actor ass. I thought maybe we could share our respective arts, that's why I went to see him in that play. I don't need him playing his vacillating games. With his I'm busy excuses, "I have to be on set all day. My kids need me. I need to visit family in Ireland." Bla Bla Bla. Where's the us time, Gabe? So Susan Miller don't you worry your pretty astrological head, I don't care if it is Venus going retrograde, bring whatcha got planet of love !

Monday, December 05, 2005

Death is Easy Folk Music is Hard

My best friend Anna, who's a folk singer, goes a little crazy about the NYC folk scene. The scene is kind of cliquey and there is this whole hierarchy of folk singers. Like there are the people who've been playing around town for years and have been on the all folk cable channel, 12 string Center. Which is a silly title because most NYC folkys can barely play a 6 string never mind a twelve string. The station doesn't play alot of music videos, I guess no one can say, "Remember when 12 String Center used to play music videos? Now it's just news clips of guys with dreds marching on Washington, and reports about the new Birkenstock that Dar Williams bought." Most folkys won't lower themselves to make a video, next thing you know their playing gigs at Wa-mart. There's one show on the station called, "Moving pictures of enhancing music" that plays videos. Mostly, it's clips from independent art films that a folk musician contributed songs to. And the films don't have plots or characters. Some videos are just blackness because the filmmaker didn't believe in using lights. What most young folksy aspire to get on is "Supreme Fusion" where they each get to play their protest or heartbroken songs in a round for a live theatre, studio audience. Once you land this spot you can play all the rooms the "cool kids" play in NYC, but still might not to play the uptown clubs that actually pay you for your sets, like club MochaSingo on 56ths and 9th avenue.

Yeah, it's highly confusing, and overwhelming. Anna has no idea what's she's doing. She's thinking of submitting a tape for the "Suprene Fusion" show. She thinks they might really like her songs, "You Can Say No Thanks to the Ham I sent, but Say Thanks," "Vote Anarchist" and her classic "I'll Where a Condom on My Tongue I'm that thirsty."

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Men Say the Darndest Things

Yesterday, a gentleman caller of sorts, who goes by the name Stripper, stopped by my apartment. He used to live in the apartment above mine with his drug dealing girlfriend. Maybe she wasn't his girlfriend, but as they say on friendster they had a "domestic partnership" for awhile. They're relationship kind of reminded me of my grandparents' as it was full of yelling and screaming. But unlike my grandparents they didn't stay together until death do them part.

Anyway, they don't live in my building anymore. I guess Stripper was in the neighborhood because he stopped by my place. He rang my apartment bell. "Shit!" I thought. I knew it was him because he's the only one who stops by without being buzzed in. I couldn't not open the door. My music was playing, he could see the light from the my room under the door. That's the stuff they don't teach you in school how to blow off the crackhead without pissing him off. So I spoke to him for several minutes in the doorway. He was looking for roommate good's girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, Michelle. Not only did she give drunken psychic readings at 4am when visiting Roommate Good from Colorado she also liked to befriend the neighborhood crack heads. I explained to Stripper that Michelle was in Colorado. He then gave me a magazine (yeah, I don't know either), and asked if I was OK? "Yes, I'm fine thanks."
"Really, you don't look so good."

And that's when it hit me. When a dude who is missing half his teeth says you don't look so good, you probably don't look so good.

Marry Me!

This past weekend I went with a bunch of friends where we proceeded to get considerably drunk on $2.50 well drinks. My best friend Anna was completely Annihilated and began to bemoan how she could never have a wedding because she only knew songs about heartache and depression. "What am I going to dance with my new groom to 'I am Trying to Break Your Heart?' by Wilco. Or Jonathan Richman's 'True Love is not Nice?'" She slurred.

We suggested that perhaps she find a groom first. "A groom. Who needs a friggin groom? I just want a wedding. Hell, I can hire a groom. I want the party. I have great plans for the whole event. At the ceremony I'm going to have fire jugglers and a duel. And in the middle of the ceremony I'm going to have an actor who looks like a young Dustin Hoffman run into the mock Bascillica I'm having built for the occassion and scream, 'Elaine! Elaine!' and then I, and my husband to be, will retort, 'wrong wedding.' It's going to be awesome. And I'll have a big party with a dj playing phat beats. I'll sit all my relatives who have mis-seated me at their weddings at tables where they know no one. What's a wedding without some emotional revenge? Now, all I need is to find a happy song about love. Are there any?"

Then we hid Anna's wallet so she couldn't drink anymore.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

TV the Great Educator

TV offers up many life lessons, but it doesn't spoon feed them to us. We must forage for the lessons as we watch. For example, Who wants to be a Millioniare chock full of philosophical guidance, not to mention all the great trivia.

I watched a fat guy on the early afternoon version of the show get a simple question wrong. (Maybe I don't have to mention he's fat, but you know...whatever.) I know the question was simple because the value of the question was below the $1000 mark. He was asked which verb in the four choices is a "passive" verb. Or maybe it was which one wasn't. But it definitely was about passive verbs. A passive verb is the conjugation of the verb "to be." As opposed to passive aggressive verbs which would be "to be like my mother." The man had an idea of the answer but was not sure. So he polled the audience. They majority of the audience gave him the correct answer. But that was not the answer he thought was correct. Next he wastes yet ANOTHER lifeline and takes a 50/50. The correct answer still remaining on the board. (Supposedly it has to otherwise he wouldn't know to choose it. Yeah, exactly. Seems ridiculous to me as well. I thought when does he have to eat the bugs?) He then calls a friend. The friend gives him the right answer. Instead of picking the correct answer he proclaims he has to go with gut. Turns out his gut failed English or was too busy daydreaming about eggplant parm sandwiches because he proceeds to choose the incorrect answer. Though, I concede that only my daydreams may have been filled with eggplant.

Lesson? At first you might think it's that fat people are stupid or at least bad at determining the parts of speech. But that hypothesis is disproved by my very large, yet bright high school English teacher. No! The life lesson is that people's instincts are very wrong. That inner voice we all have, as opposed to the multitude of voices only some of us have, should not be listened to. We should ignore it at all costs! The audience knows best. That gut feeling only knows when we're hungry, and even then it can be wrong like in the case of this contestant.

In the end we learn it's best to just follow the majority of the crowd, not the full crowd because some of them didn't know the answer either. Apparently anywhere up to 20% of the crowd is completely off their rockers. However, you must not think for yourself otherwise you'll be humiliated on national TV and not even win the minimum $1000 that Millioniare sets up for its contestants to win. And then your trip to NYC from some small midwestern town was all for naught.

Monday, November 28, 2005

A couple divided

Jack is still disappointed that I chose to spend Thanksgiving with my parents and their friends in Florida this year instead of going with him to Pittsburg to participate in their family traditions. He got all pissy last night and said, "I'm going to celebrate Christmas with your family this year at the very least you could have come home with me for Thanksgiving."
"But you guys don't celebrate Christmas." I protested. And they don't. As I posted previously Jack's dad is a freelance Indian Chief so Jack's family celebrates the holidays of the tribe Mr. Kundera is chiefing that year and it's never Christmas.

I told him I'll go next year. He said, "Well, we may not burn the Pilgrim effigy next year." I said, "You guys burn the effigy every year." "Well, maybe we won't next year." "Yes, you will." He hung his head and muttered, "Yeah, I know. You still could have come this year." I kissed him on the cheek.

The thing with Jack's family is that they are white themselves so they don't burn actual white people they just burn the effigies as a symbol of solidarity with all the creatures and peoples who used to inhabit this land. I don't know. To each his own. Who am I to judge? My family's Thanksgiving tradition is to argue about the fastest way to get to my aunt and uncle's house from any given point in the universe. Maybe burning pilgrims could be fun with some wine and apple pie ala mode.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Until after we give the Thanks

I'm leaving for Florida in less than 9 hours. Unfortunately, I'll be flying. Flying always brings up the question, "Do I bring my journal on the plane?" The flight presents perfect journal writing time. Nothing much to do but, read, write and sip beverages uninterrupted for hours. But if the plane explodes in a fiery crash--Poof! There goes the journal, deepriving the world of my thoughts and feeling for the last 2 months, and I know the world is very interested. The world would have to be interested if it's going to put in the long hours trying to decipher my atrocious handwriting. My mother once said to me as she glanced on a note I had scribbled, "That looks like a retarded person wrote that." Thanks mom. And if the journal disappears she'll never know I've forgiven her.
When I lived in Portland we had a mic that at times could be awesome: packed with an attentive laughing audience. Other times it could be dismal: almost no audience or an audience looking to decimate the performers. One night the audience was particularly hostile. They heckled each comic that came to the stage. Not one of us could get them to shut up. The bar, which had bouncers, did nothing. And then a comedian named Danny Norton took the stage. He stood 5 feet 5 inches maybe a 135 pounds. The heckling continued. He tried telling jokes over them. He tried making fun of them, and then... He jumped off stage with the mic in hand and wrapped the mic chord around the heckler's neck and began to strangle him. What Danny lacks in comedic ability he makes up for with loads of self-destructive insanity. The bouncer broke up the attack and threw the heckling troglodites out of the bar. The host for the late show came in and asked, "What happened? I saw Danny out on the median of Burnside Road stomping on the flowers."

The story made the alternative weekly in town. You'd think the new public knowledge that comedians will literarly try to kill you if you harass them would have stopped Portlanders from heckling. But alas no.
People, I know the blog has lacked the comedic heroics you're used to at smallhands_ick these last couple of weeks. I'm blaming it on the fact that I've been accidently loosing weight the last couple of months. I'm hoping this long weekend will have me back fully nourished, rested and ready to take on winter with full on absurdity. Have a great Thanksgiving.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


Last night I socialized with a group of people, most of whom I didn't know well. During the conversation a 27 year old male used the phrase, "Balls to the wall." After uttering the words he looked across the table at me and apologized for using such rough language in my presence. I then became offended and uneasey. How dare he treat me like a woman! I'm no delicate flower. And to prove this I trumped his "balls to the wall" with "cunt to the front." Respect me, Ha! I'll make sure that never happens again!

How lucky am I that I met Jack? He's the only one who would ever put up with my inner sailor.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Poetry in Music

Frequently, bloggers will post the lyric to a song written by a popular muscian in order to express the blogger's mood that day. I kind of feel like this is cheating. As a writer it's the writer's responsibilty to create his or her own lyric or poetry to express his or her feelings and mindset. However, today I feel like Erykah Badu's words from her album, "Erykah Badu Live" track 3 entitled "Reprise" says what I've been feeling deep inside me for sometime. She says it so perfectly, How could I ever think that I have the skill to express this sentiment any better. For this blog post, I'd like to be a hypocrite and post these moving and thoughtful words. I hope you get as much inspiration from them as I have these past few years.

Ya'all know what a cipher is? There’s all kind of ciphers. Right. But a cipher can be represented by a circle. Which consists of how many degrees? What? 360 degrees. A circle. And my cipher keeps moving like a rolling stone. So when in my song when I say that my cipher represents myself, or the atoms in my body. And the rolling stone represents the Earth. The atoms in the body rotate at the same rate on the same axis as the Earth rotates. Giving us a direct connection with the place we call Earth. There for we can call ourselves earth. OK?

On my hand I wear an unch. This is an Unch. An Unch is an ancient chemetic symbol. The word chemet is the original name for Egypt. This symbol can be found on the walls of the Hieroglyphics in Chemet. And this symbol represents life. Alright? This portion represents the womb. Sisters put your hands on your wombs. This portion represents the male principle of the birth canal. Brothers put your hands your male principle. (chuckle). And this portion represents the fallopian tubes. 120. 120. 120. 360 degrees of life: completion. You and me--life. And in all that I do I try to represent life. Give birth to different things: melody, music, prayers, babies.

Ahmen, Sister! Perfect.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Light Bulb Over My Head

Long underwear doesn't work. It works at first. When you first leave the house you are indeed warmer than you would have been sans the long underwear. But then you go inside. And as we are warm blooded animals our bodies adjust our temperature so we don't overheat. So now we're inside with long underwear on feeling completely comfortable. Eventually we have to go back outside to get back home or to the next exciting experience and now the long underwear doesn't work. Our legs are shivering. Yeah, I've tried not shaving my legs but the same principle applies. (So now I don't shave them for different reasons.)

I have a solution--Pant Coats. They'd be like wool chaps. You put them on OVER your pants right before you go outside. Then when you reach your indoor desitination you take off your top coat and then you whip off your pant coats! Your body adjusts to the indoor tempature, but who cares you only have one layer of pants on. You're going to put the second layer on right before you head back out into the freezing bleekness. Ha Ha! Take that winter.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Show Tonight

Minty Fresh presents a comedy show.

I'm up first.


Our first show at Mo Pitkins!! Come meet beautiful
Irish bartender, Thomas!
Thursday, November 17 @ 8PM
MintyfreshMo Pitkins (Sadie's Lounge)
34 Ave A b/t East 2nd and 3rd Sts
featuring Ben Chaney, Wes Connelly, Laura Mannino,
Michael Muldoon, Rachael Parenta, Baron Vaughn, Sven
Weschler and hosted by Shawn Hollenbach.

Let's Stay together. Sort of

My best friend Anna hates when people break up with her because the sex well dries up. She then has to go back out into the world and find a boy that won't stab her in her sleep. Or won't be harshly critical. This one time Anna took home an uncircumcised gentleman caller. At one point in their semi-naked evening he shouted, "You're doing it wrong!" She responded, "Looks like our time here is up." So she hates when non-homicidal non-critical men leave. Sure she is just as aware as the boy of how it's not working out. She asks, "But can't we still have sex? Yeah, I know it's awkward, how can it not be you've got fifteen years on me, so let's not talk. I don't need dinner. Hell, I don't even need dessert. Let's never speak again and continue to have sex. Come on, be a pal. "

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Bear Hunt

They want to hunt black bear in NJ this year. Apparently, there are almost 1000 black bear living in NJ which is just slightly less than the 8,414,350 people living in the same state. (US Census 2000). Those pesky bears living in the remaining five acres of woods. How dare they!
Let me put it this way Bears have killed 3 people on the entire Eastern Seaboard where as cops have killed 81 people in the city of San Diego (some random website). Even if that statistic is not accurate you know that cops especially in NJ kill more than three people a year. And in 2003 there were approximately 22,000 cops in NJ that's just the employed ones that's not including the NY cops living in the garden state ( So I'm thinking instead of hunting bear we should hunt cops. They kill more people, bother more drivers, use more resources, beat more wome. There has never been a report of a black bear beating it's wife. Nor has there been a case of his black bear friends covering up the fact that he beat his wife. Granted you can't eat a cop after you kill one. Well, you could but then you increase your odds of getting mad human disease. Further, I think hunting cops would present hunters with a greater challenge. Bears don't shoot back, but we all know cops do.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Jack's Present

My dearest Jack surprised me with tickets to see Gabriel Byrne in Eugene O'Neil's play "A Touch of the Poet." So sweet. For those of you who've never seen my act you might not know that Gabe and I actually had a thing for awhile. ---It's a long story, but basically it never really worked out between the two of us. You'll have to hear the song and see the pictures to fully understand. You'd think that with what we went through he could throw me a couple of comps. But that's Byrne for you, out of sight out of mind.---The fact that Gabe and I have history makes Jack's gift that much sweeter. I know that I could never buy tickets for Jack and me to attend a lecture on proper food distribution techniques to blind orphans in cinderblock devastated nations if the lecture was given by one of his old flames. Did you know that poorer nations that can't afford conventional ammunition resort to hurling cinderblocks at each other. You'd think that these nations would just abstain from war at least until they've saved up enough money for bullets or a cannon. Not to write that the cinder blocks don't destroy these countries. The damage suffered...words can't even describe. Have you seen people dying of thirst because their creek has been completely displaced by blocks of cement?

But the suffering of remote peoples is not the point of this post. The point is I'm a jealous person and Jack is not. Jack even went so far as to say that if Gabe and I wanted to have one last fling after the show I should go for it. I told Jack I'm committed to Jack and my relationship. Jack said, "Well, I guess, I could join you if you really find yourself wanting him." Oh my God!!! How unbelievably giving. Jack isn't even bi-sexual. Not one bit. I told him, "Babe that is super generous of you, but I could never do that to you." The truth is I could never do that to me. Like I wrote, I'm jealous. I know I'd see one of them give the other a look. Or think I wasn't getting the same attention as Gabe or Jack. My mind would betray me and I'd flip out, "Fine! You two are so in love why don't you just be alone together. Move to Hawaii and get married. Have fun. Hope you don't get sunburned you bastards!" I'd storm out and slam the door. BAM! I think instead I'll avoid the threesome, enjoy some theatre, and keep my relationship intact.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Some Questions. Maybe Someone Relates

Here's something I found in Massachusettes this weekend: Black is the new Jewish.
Do you guys ever find yourselves standing in an elevator with only one other person whom you don't know and think, "This dude is totally going to try to stab me before we reach the nineth floor?" And then he does, and you're like "I knew it! I'm totally psychic. Psychic and bleeding, but psychic nonetheless."
I'm so paranoid that I think I'm out to get me.
Actually, have you ever told the truth but felt like you're lying and that no one in the room should believe you because if you weren't with yourself the whole day you wouldn't believe you either? But the thing is you are telling the truth but it all feels like a lie. What is that?

Friday, November 11, 2005

God, Mesopotamian System, & Two Links

It upsets me when people remind me there's no God. I'm like, "Oh yeah, right. I'm never going to get what I want. Great! Yay! rational thought."
Interview question: "Why do you want to work here?"
Me: "I don't want to work here. "
Interview: "huh?"
Me: "Ahh, look the food is locked away and the only way to get some of it is to do some bullshit for you or some other stupid thing of nothingness, that no one cares about including you. Stop."
Anyway, due to lack of sleep most of this week I'm going to bail on a post. This month I've rediscovered Dario Fo, a brilliant solo performer and winner of the Noble Prize for Literature in 1997. Also I bought myself my first i-tune yesterday-- "Hotel Lorraine" performed by Otis Spann. I used to play it every week on "Bluesology," a radio show I hosted in Boston. I haven't heard it in years, great tune. I tried to find it for free but alas, I had to pay the man. Pisses me off because he's dead, so the only people making a profit off this thing are people who had nothing to do with its creation.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Do I have to Spoon Feed You the Answer?

I tried getting into a museum for a student price. I showed my 10-year-old college ID to the money-collecting woman. She looked at my ID and said this expired. I protested slightly, but knew I had been caught so I let it go. Then, all offended, she asks me, "Why would you lie?" What kind of stupid question is that? "Why would I lie?" To pay less money. A better question would have been, "Why wouldn't you want to pay full price and support the museum and the culture held within it?" And then I would have had to admit, "Because I'm a cheap soulless creature." Which is not something she could have necessarily rationally deducted.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

So I'm a Little High Strung

I like making fun of myself so here's a story I think is funny.

I’m not really what one would call a “wallflower.” Unless of course wallflowers have taken to loudly expressing a torrent of emotions in public--and when I type “in public” I don’t mean on a stage in public, I just mean in public like at a public library--if wall flowers do that than I sit corrected.

One evening I totally lost my mind, I did eventually find it the next morning. It turns out my mind was right next my bed. I had left home without it that day. No one noticed at my temp job. I must admit I am always misplacing and loosing my mind. I think I’m so tightly wound it kind of just pops right out of my head and then I forget to pick it up and put it back in. Frequently, I wind up having to go back to the bar the next morning to retrieve it from the lost and found box under the bar.

OK so a couple of months ago I ran into a dude I once dated, Kyle. He was with a very cute girl. Granted I was also with a girl, but it was clear I wasn't fucking her, and I was having a humongous hair day. And by humongous I don't mean really good, I mean big like 1980s Jersey Big (that's double big, people). So my ego kind of felt like it had cliff dived into cement. See, ex types aren't allowed to do well after you. They need to be crumpled with regret in the corner of their kitchen. All the girls before you should be hotties. You want to be part of that club, but after you the club should be set ablaze. Soon after introductions and a little small talk the ex and cute gilr left to have hot sex in the bathroom of a swank bar. OK, they may not even have been on a date, but you know rational thought is hardly appropriate, and who are we kidding I’m sure they’re married now and as I type this are enjoying their honeymoon in Fiji. Nonetheless, they said "good-bye" and walk away. I don't know that they were out of ear shot when I loudly questioned my remaining friends and the rest of the venue, "Why do I always loose?!"
Obviously, it's a competition. Of what? I have no idea. All I know is that I lost. My buddy says to me, “I’m not going to tell you she’s not cute.” No shit Sherlock.

I continue to have melt down for a few more minutes and then hop on my bike to peddle to Brooklyn. Somehow I perform a set of jokes and people actually laughed. I get off stage and go right back to flipping out in the back of the room. In my defense I'd like to mention that it was a full moon or nearing one. And I’m sure I was premenstrual and having premature menopause and I was possibly pregnant, and let’s not forget the heroin, and all the mood elevators the doctors have me on. Between sips of vodka I tell this dude Kevin, who also knows Kyle, that he should tell Kyle that he has seen me with this really hot guy. Turns out the competition is who can get the hottest hook up. Now, also understand that Kevin is an inebriation enthusiast---so much so that Kevin can't remember what the word "memory" means. However, somehow his beer-soaked mind remembers my statement. So what does this degenerate do? The next day he friggin’ tells Kyle that I SAID to say that Kevin saw me with a hot guy. Not that I actually was with a hot guy. What kills me is I never thought Kevin would relay the original hot guy fake gossip. I didn’t think Kevin would remember having lived that day. I was just being nutty. So now not only does Kyle know that I lost, but now he knows that there was something to loose, so I wound up loosing twice!

Monday, November 07, 2005

Waxing Nostalgic

This weekend I got my 'stache ripped off my upper lip with hot wax. It is only the 2nd time in my life that I have had this done. The procedure left my upper lip slightly broken out. I have to admit it wasn't that noticeable until... today. At work I found myself bored so I picked and prodded face until the slight irritation became red and obscene. To hide my mutilation I took my hair out of the bun so my locks would cover my face. Later that day I took the subway downtown and my nose began to run. I had no paper products to with which to wipe my nose. I now had to carefully keep my hair over my face to camaflouage the upper lip atrocity while at the same time keeping my curls out of my snot.

Yes, I'm quite the lady.

less painful than a waxing

Sunday, November 06, 2005

My hands are tied

I think we should kill one of my roommates. And when I write "we," I mean all of us or any of us or one of us, or Elijiah the Prophet. After a weekend in NJ I came home to find the bathroom without toilet paper and Chinese food turned pencillin in the fridge. I went out and over paid for a roll of toilet paper as the grocery store in the neighborhood was closed. I think I should keep the TP in my room with my robe. He never replaces any of the common commodities, and for this he should die.

I would kill him myself right now, but I don't have a gun. Perhaps I could poison him, but he never gets around to eating anything in the apartment. And without a gun or poison I'd have to use my empty hands--a.k.a. karate. Turns out I'm only allowed to use karate for self-defense. When committing acts of violence sans firearms it's hard to know what is and isn't karate. I think I can poke him in the eyes but only with a single finger. If I put my fingers together and strike his pupil that's called a shote and is there by forbidden. I can strangle him, but only if I avoid the many pressure points I'm now aware of due to my studies. What if this ignoramus tries to defend himself. It seems unlikely because that would require effort, but that's just my luck. All of a sudden he would decide to get off his lazy ass and do something at the exact moment I need him to just sit still and take a beating. In the event that he starts flailing about I have to block and parry because if I don't I'll get hit, ouch. But if I block his strikes I'm using karate again and we're right back where we started.

I've thought of asking my other roommate to kill him, as my other roommate has no martial arts training, but my other roommate does so much around the apartment already. I just feel guilty asking for a favor.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Hold onto that Gal

Last night I heard a comedic acquaintance explained why he had to dump his 24-year-old girlfriend--he's 37. The girl thought Felicia Rashad was Rosa Parks. According to the comic she expressed this belief in the middle of performing fellatio. I think he should reconsider the dumping. I mean, a girl with that kind of ventriloquism skill is a keeper. Maybe that's why she's not so well versed in American history and pop culture because she spends most of her time working on that unbelievable talent. It's either that or my father's warning about Irish guys is right and the comic left enough room in her mouth for her to give a discourse on the Cosby Show. In which case, he should try to get her back, and now.

2 lines off a mirrored table

I got kicked out of denial the other day. I've been trying to drink my way back ever since.

I was trying to illegally download love. Turns out no one has it in their shared folder.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

I'm No CS Lewis, but Two Paragraphs on Pain

People really suffer out there in the world. There are people without parents. People who are victims of violent crimes and abuse. Their are people whose homes have been obliterated by natural disasters. When I'm feeling highly depressed I think about these people. And I feel worse. Not only do I remain depressed, but now I feel guilty because I have no reason to be sad. So then I start to think about the people who have it so much better than me--those who have great sucess in their careers and love lives. Those who can buy all the chipwiches they want. I still feel sad, but feel justified in my self-pity.

To further justify my wallowing I like to make analogies. Like this one: when I stub my toe or get a paper cut, I say ouch and swear. Why? Because it hurts. In my agony I don't think about veterans who have had their legs blown off, or people with arthritis. Though they suffer exponentially more, my paper cut still hurts like a bitch, and I can't help that. I didn't invent the sensation I feel-- it friggin' hurts. Like really. And unlike a baseball bat to the head it's one of those annoying pains.

And so let me take all I have for granted.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

At least I can admit it

I hate when people excuse their bad behaviour with the fact that they are aware that they have a bad personality trait. For example I'm a self involved asshole. I know I'm a self involved asshole, but my knowing that about myself doesn't make my self involvedness OK. I argue that it makes it worse. I know that I suck and why I suck, and yet I don't change. Meanwhile, a non-self aware self involved asshole can't change because they don't know anything is wrong. What's even worse is that the rest of the population seems to accept this. You disarm their criticism by merely admitting what a douche you are.

To me it's like if Ted Bundy said, "Yes, I'm a serial killer. But at least I can admit it. Jeffrey Domar is walking around in denial, see I'm not as bad as Domar." And then the jury finds him not guilty by reason of self-awareness. How about this, stop killing people, Ted!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Singing in the Rain

My parents are much better at choosing friends than me. They've had friends they've known since before high school. Me? Let's put it this way, in elementary school I belonged to a clique of girls. They were cute, smart, and fucking evil. When we weren't working on our slam books we were emotionally scarring each other, the torture didn't stop until someone shed tears and doubted their right to exist. I never witnessed that behaviour from my parents or their friends. Especially with regards to slam books.

By the time I was 13 I decided not to belong anywhere. In 8th grade I also decided to avenge myself. I charged long distance phone calls to Lisa Nazar's phone number. How? Well, all you have to do is dial the operator and explain you want to charge the following call to said phone number. That was it. Who knew that Bell Atlantic would list the telephone number from which the call was placed on Lisa Nazar's parents' phone bill. Oopsy. I got caught. My parents, very upset with my behaviour, grounded me.

The punishment seemed to include going to the home John and Markaye Taylor for dinner. Who? High school friends of my parents. And the funniest people I've ever met in my entire life. And I've met some friggin hysterical comedians. I always enjoyed these people. Unlike most of my parents friends John and Markaye didn't argue about driving directions, Reagan, and dietary problems. Instead the Taylors were loud and funny. They swore, drank hard liquor, told dirty jokes, the introduced me to the word "hebe" and the always had the best stories. I never tried to wrangle out going to their house. If dinner at John and Markaye's was part of my sentence for stealing long distance then hells yeah! I'll charge phone calls every day.

During the course of dinner this particular evening my vengeful deed came up. My parents explained what I had done with grave disappointment on their faces and in their voices. John and Markaye responded, "Good for you! She was a bitch right. Screw her. Next time, though, don't get caught." My Dad's head dropped to his chest, he shook his head and laughed.

John Taylor will be missed.

Monday, October 31, 2005

a moment of silence

Wellington Mara died this week. A very emotional time for every US citizen. If it weren't for this little 9 year old boy from Montgomery, Albama, aka the upper east side, refusing to give up his seat on a cross town bus to some dude the Football Giants' bench would never have been moved to the sunny side the stadium. He started it all! And for that each and everyone living in the US or at least the NYC tri-state area should be grateful. Do you think the Giants would have been able to win countless championships when there was only 6 teams in the NFL and 2 superbowls when their were significantly more teams in the NFL if his players had the sniffles? No.

Sunday, October 30, 2005


I like Halloween because of the partying. I hate Halloween because of the god damn effort. I have no desire to spend money on a costume. I developed my most inventive costume my senior year of college where I went as an abused wife. Don't worry I told everyone I fell down the stairs. My friend Kerisa went as my abusive husband. We were one hot semi-trany couple. Me with my deshevled hair, black eye, and robe. Kerisa with a beer gut, greasy hair, and pencil thin mustache.

Since then it's been a steady decline of apathetic costumes. The year after the news boy I cut a hole in a pillow case, tied a ruler around my waste, placed a bowler cap atop my head and went as an ingima. No one got it. Two years ago while still living in PortlandI put on my bike gear and went as a bike messenger. I repeated the costume last year because I moved back across the country. People didn't think I was dressed up, I explained that I usually wear a helmet when I ride a bike and on Halloween I was without helmet, just like a messenger.

October 2004 I was reading Zinn's People's History of the United States and decided that in 2005 I would go as a turn of the century, dead, union striker--very ambitious. Not only was I to wear a period costume, but I wanted to make a wooden sign that read "8 hour work day" and to have a hole in my gut from a U.S. issued 19th century rifle.

Yeah, so that didn't happen. Instead I plan to wear big hoop earings, a funky hat, and sunglasses. I'm going as "Rachael as a funk bass player, sans the bass.."

Friday, October 28, 2005

Terrorfying Tale of My Hair

"Oh my god I have three inch roots!"

Pedantic Musings

A comedy acquaintance of mine likes to rail against monogamy. His main argument is that it’s not natural. He goes onto purport that no other animal on Earth is monogamous. Well, duiker species such as the one pictured to the left is monogamous. And if this was your adorable mate wouldn’t you demand s/he only see you? But let’s just pretend for a second that my colleague hadn’t studied intelligent design and was right about humans sole affinity for monogamy. We are also the only animals to build combustible engines, put them in aluminum contraptions, and then drive them around. We’re the only species to make pizza. We’re the only animals to purchase plane tickets on our own behalf and then of our own free will get on one and go somewhere. We’re the only species that makes the choice to live in apartment buildings. Humans are the only ones to have created polyester and then choose to buy it. But there this comedian is driving around NYC (talk about unnatural) in his car, eating a hot dogs, speaking paragraphs of English into a microphone. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with all those things.

I don’t even think people should be monogamous, but I also don’t think they should shy away from it. You’ve got to do what works for you and the people you’re involved with. But I’m sick of the argument that “it’s not natural” that it’s not “found in nature.” Frequently, the people who rail against life mating like to point the finger at women for being the proponents of the lifestyle choice, “If women would just loosen up and see the light everyone would be happy.” News, flash—Women cheat. Just listen to a Lightin’ Hopkins’ song. Women walk down the street and see an attractive guy and just want to bed him. They want the freedom to screw any dude they want anytime they want to. And guess what, stud? There are actually some men out there who would rather just court one lady. Crazy, I know.

And this is the only aspect of life where making a choice is frowned upon. There are people who have lived in the same town or city for their whole entire life. No one goes, “That’s not natural, most animals are nomadic.” There are people who’ve been in the same industry or had the same career, or even worked the same job their whole adult life. “Don’t they know that humans are they only creatures to work for an abstract concept of money.”

Is that boring? I don’t know. I’ve never committed to anything in my life except for karate and I even quit that for a few years in the mid-90s. But I returned and am glad I did, the learning never stops, nor the challenges. And karate is a hell of lot less complicated than a human being natural or otherwise.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

I am Actually the President of Non-Profit Theatre Company

I had a phone interview for some company that trades in intellectual property. I think that's what they do. I'm not exactly sure because I really wasn't listening to the temp agency when they described the company or the position. All I heard was $18/hr, 9-5, off the 2 & 3 trains. The company also sounded like it had internet access with unrestricted browsing capabilties, perfect I can send and receive personal emails, research comedy and theatre gigs, and stalk Gabriel Byrne, plus $18/hr means I can buy chipwhichs any time I want. Thus far I've had to budget for them.

In the interview the one dude asked me if, after graduation from college, I had seen myself doing administrative work post college. I thought about it a second and answered, "Yes, as a little girl I always dreamt of being a secretary. I found the sitting at a desk all day in school thoroughly enjoyable and wanted to ensure that I could continue the fun into adulthood. I've always been skinny and wanted a career that would help me get that ass-spread which is all the rage in America these days." I bet he asked that question because he read on my resume that I graduated college with a BFA in Acting. And everyone knows Acting students have high hopes of entering the food service industry upon graduation. Well, not this rebel.

He told me they want someone who's going to stick around for at least two years. Perfect. In two years I'll be thirty and right where I've always wanted to be.

I don't know what I was thinking, it must have been my checking account balance. Whatever it was it threw me because I wound up not blowing the interview. They want me to come in for a face to face interview. I guess I can always get fired in 3 months.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

What I Read Last Night

Because no one I know attended the show last night, except for Liam who was on the show. I'm posting the unabridged version of the piece I read. It's not bad, but it's long. I doubt any of you will get to the end.

When I tell people I perform stand-up comedy they commonly respond, “Wow, that’s so brave. I could never do that.” Really? I don’t think stand-up is that scary. Now, telling someone that I love him—that’s friggin’ scary. I could never do that. Comedy (pff). Big deal, I get on stage and risk rejection from strangers. On the other hand to confess “amore” I risk having my heart whacked with a two by four and thrown in the wood-chipper, and by someone I know.

Frequently, the “courageous comedy conversation” takes place on an airplane while I am making the small talk. Ironic. Some stranger prattles on about how scary stand-up is; meanwhile, we’re being hurled through the clouds in a two-ton machine flying 25,000 feet in the air, loaded with highly flammable jet fuel. We could meet our demise in countless ways. Like at any moment the engines could fail sending us plummeting to the Earth faster than a dunk girl’s standards reaching our end in a fiery mangled wreck. Or our drunken pilot could turn into a puddle of Jell-O after eating the in-flight meal—I’ve seen airplane. His Jell-o-ed mass, no longer able to grab the controls, flies us into a wheat silo somewhere in Nebraska and we all drown in whole grains. My seat cushion does not float in cereal. Or maybe we don’t crash, instead Ms. Superficial Chit Chat sitting next to me, whose medical history I don’t know, goes into epileptic seizure. As she flails about she kicks me in the throat, my trachea collapses, I die!

See, stand-up is the one thing that does not terrify me in my whole terror filled existence. I can find the death in every situation. I have considered never leaving my apartment except it’s not safe there either. I am trepidation personified. I am a coward. Screw Cold-Play I am yellow. I have always been. Even at the age of 5, well before the world’s harsh realities revealed themselves to me, I instinctively knew death was out to get me. My child self knew the way death worked. You see, death doesn’t want a struggle or a fight so he waits. He would wait until bedtime and then he sends his creepy, unkempt minions to assassinate me. As a child I would stay up all night keeping vigil. I think that in 1982 I got a total of 7 hours of sleep. My father’s cousin once tried to assuage me fears, “You’re not crazy, kid. People are out to get you, but don’t worry about it. That blanket of yours has the power of protection. Those guys in your closet can not penetrate the blanket.” Too bad cousin Dominick didn’t know that my assailants were old pros—they did not dwell in my closet, rather, they hid under my bed. As I tried to sleep I could hear them discussing their murderous plans. “So, Burt here’s the plan, see. We’re going to take this non-electric manual hand drill-the thing doesn’t make a sound so we won’t wake the kid or alert the parents. Then we’ll drill through the box spring up through the mattress and then into her heart. “You’re a genius, Roger.” “Thanks, Burt.” “No problem, Rog.”

What was I supposed to do? My parents were downstairs living it up watching “Dynasty.” I was all alone upstairs with two maniacs who had a hand-drill and knew had to use it. All I could do was bury myself in these stupid blankets soaked with my sweat. Blankets that I couldn’t get to fold underneath me, my mother had done a military job of tucking my covers. I could sense Burt and Roger beginning their work. Here it comes. This is it. The end! It was too soon. I had yet to accomplish all my goals, like spelling my own last name. Desperate my two foot frame pushed out a yell, “DAD!!!” I couldn’t yell for mom, her tucking technique had made her suspect. For all I knew she could have been in cohoots with Burt and Roger.

“Shit Roger, she’s on to us.”
“Hurry up then.”
“DAD!!!” Sweat and tears collected in puddles on my face.
“Quicker, Burt. Quicker.”
“Quicker yourself.”
“I don’t want to die at five.” I whimpered. Heavy lumbering feet pounded up the steps. It’s Dad. Whew.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Crying “They’re going to kill me.”
“No one’s going to kill you.”
“Yes, they’re under the bed and they’re going to drill into my heart.”
My father crouched down on his knees and looked under my bed.
“There’s no one down there.” He reported.
“They’ve hid while you wasted precious time doubting me.”
“No. Go to sleep.
“Listen, no one wants to kill you. Why would anyone want to hide under a bed all night to kill a five year old girl?”
“You’re saying I’m not special. People do to want to kill me. I’m just as important as the people on the news! You don’t know.”

And so it went until I was 18 when I finally moved out. I’ve spent my adult life trying to keep one step ahead of Roger and Burt. First I went to Boston. I enrolled in one the many private colleges there. Dorm life was perfect. My bed’s proximity to the floor left no room for a person to hide. The floors themselves were concrete, so they couldn’t be penetrated with a hand drill. The boys or any other evil-doers would need a loud power drill to get to me--totally making their presence known. He ha! Of course a laser would have done the job, pretty quite, but lasers require tons of voltage. I further ensured my safety by switching dorm rooms each year. I tried to switch rooms each semester, but the Student Life Department was cold and unfeeling. They said unless it was my roommate trying to kill me there was nothing they could do. I said the only thing keeping my roommate from killing me was that I tie her hands and feet to her bedposts after she falls asleep each night. Then I wake up early and untie her. If she catches me she can’t complain, because then she’ll have to admit to her nefarious plans.

After college I kept on the move: LA, Portland, OR and now Brooklyn. People question my choice of Brooklyn. “If you’re so scared of being murdered why would you move to Brooklyn?” I tell them murder knows no geography. Death is everywhere, people. I’ve lived with the label of “crazy-paranoid” and “self involved and self-aggrandizer.” “No one’s out to get you” friends would tell me echoing my father’s sentiments. “Look you’re not dead.” I’m not dead because I’m cunning.

And then it happened. Death tipped his hand and proved that I was not insane but one of the sanest people to ever inhale oxygen.

Earlier this very September on a dark rainy night my boyfriend Jack and I took in some theatre. Talk about terrifying, Edward II by Bertolt Brecht. Nothing like early Brecht…thank god. Sitting through two and half hours of high concept self important theatre left us exhausted, so we decided to make an early night of it. We headed home and went to sleep. At 4 in the morning my day of reckoning finally arrived. I awoke to my door creeking open. A hand I've never seen before snuck it's way into my room and flicked my light on. OH MY GOD!!!! We're being robbed. HOLY SHIT!!! this is it someone is going to rape and kill me. AHHHH!!! A hundred variations of my mutilation sped through my head. 3 seconds later I screamed aloud, "Get the fuck out of my room!!!" The hand shut the light off withdrew and shut the door. I quickly turned on my lamp next to my bed, and grabbed my 5.5 foot stick I keep next to my bed. Jack lay next to me soundly sleeping. I swear that boy could sleep through a Black Flag concert, sometimes it’s like he’s not even there. “Jack, there’s someone in the apartment.”

“Yeah, you’re roommates.”
“No, no no, someone else. They’re right out that door.”

He began to sob. Those bastards! No one makes my man weep—no one but me. I had had it. 28 years of not sleeping had finally taken it’s toll. I guess I was delerious because I decided we needed to face the intruder. Jack’s always telling me we all have to die one day. Maybe he’s right. I mean I’ve finally mastered how to spell my name. “Let’s go Jack!” We headed out of my bedroom. I was armed with my stick and Jack armed himself with a pillow. I was ready to realize the new me, take the bull by the horns. I stormed out of my bedroom made a sharp left straight into the bathroom where I threw up. Yeah, I was scared out of my mind. What did I think I was doing? But it was too late we already left the safety of the covers. I quickly rinsed my mouth and we slowly made our way into the living room. There he was the cat burglar holding our 24 inch television. I meekly eeked out, “Put that down.”

“No. What are you going to do little girl sweep me with that broom handle? And you, pussy with the pillow you going to tell me a lullaby?”
“It’s a shield!” Jack protested.. I was scared, but no one teases my man. I thrusted my stick at the bugler’s Adam’s apple. He dropped the television on his foot and began to whimper. My downstairs neighbors pounded on their ceiling telling us to shut-up. As the burglar hopped around on one foot, making more noise, I threw a side-strike with my stick to his temple. Splat, he was on the floor. I moved toward the body. I thought I’d drag the dude out of my apartment, but before I could get a good hold on my victim his accomplice surprised us. Where did he come from? We don’t know. He put Jack in a bear hug. But due to the pillow Jack was holding convict number 2 couldn’t break his ribs. I guess that pillow wasn’t so stupid after all. Jack then grabbed the wrist and forearm of his attacker dropped to his knees and pivoted his body toward the ceiling flipping the guy over Jack’s shoulder pounding perp into the floor and he was out for the count. Again the downstairs neighbors shouted profanities through the floor.

Jack and I just about caught our breath when someone began pounding on my door. “Who is it?” “You’re downstairs neighbors” I opened the door ready to apologize. Standing in my doorway was Roger and Burt and they weren’t alone. They had a posse of 10 consisting of closet monsters, re-animated crumpled clothing, and aliens who fronted as parents to some unsuspecting children. They had found me and been renting the apartment below mine for several months now, I don’t know how I missed that. “We’ve found you Rachael. Very clever of you to clutter the underside of your bed with your crap.” Honestly, that wasn’t by design. I just live in NYC and that’s the only place I have to store my stuff. “You’re just as loud as you were as a child. But not for long.”

They attacked right there in the doorway. I tried beating them off with my stick. Jack used the pillow to try to smother the alien parents. I didn’t know how much longer we’d be able to hold them off. And then I remembered the chicken I bought last week that I never got around to cooking. “I’ll be back.” Jack screamed! “Don’t Leave!!” I rushed to the refrigerator grabbed the Key foods chicken. I ripped open the packaging and almost passes out from the stench. Yes, it was perfect. I turned around to run back to the front door, but they had already pushed there way in and surrounded my man. I jumped on Roger’s back and forced the rancid chicken down his throat!!! “Eat it! Eat it! Eat the chicken!” He fell to the floor in a salmonella fit. Then onto Burt’s back with the remaining thighs. He dropped the hand drill. Jack picked it up and began drilling his way through the bodies of the closet monsters.

Somehow we defeated them. Their bloody bodies cluttered the living room. I left them there for my roommate to clean-up, I figure if I clean his dishes he can clean my monsters. Jack and I exhausted collapsed on the couch. “I love you.” I said. “I love you too.” He responded. Holy shit. I said it. I said I love you.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

I'm not a doctor but I've seen actors play them on TV

They tell pregnant women not to drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes (or anything for that matter), or ingest caffiene. Here's the problem. They haven't always been telling women to avoid these things once pregnant. Which means generations of children have gestitated in a wombs soaked in chemicals. The damage has been done. My grandparents generation has been born, grown up, and mated with other defective former fetuses. Even if the "greatest" generation did what we now know we are supposed to do when pregnant (which lets face it our grandparents were not the abstaining types they were into swing music and nuclear bombs) it's too late. Our greatgrandparents' hard living totally mutulated their eggs and sperm screwing up the genetic code from there on in. No matter what we do now we can't reverse the damage done by thousands of years of not giving a shit about the fetus. That's why we're all so stupid.
tonight wysiwyg

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Ten Years--boy they flew!

My ten year high school reunion is next month. I was not actually invited by the organizers. Which was perfect. I got to relive my high school experience without having to shell out $92 bucks. Yes, $92 to hanging out with people who hated me. The prom was not that expensive and at least the prom held the possiblity for sex--well, for my fellow classmates.

Actually, I had sex at my senior prom. I didn't know that I had until my Freshman year of college. A high school chum informed me that I had slept with my prom date, Danny Lescht. Not only that but after Danny and I were done having sex he then bedded his friend Jesse's date. Who knew my date was such a stud. I don't really remember that part of the evening, but I'm sure I was grateful for Jesse Smith's date, I'm sure Danny had worn me out after several hours and I needed a substitute. What a trouper that gal must have been.

OK so Dan probably lied and we didn't actually have sex. Which is just funny that he choose me to lie about. First off, if he's going to invent an insane story of high school sex, perhaps he should have slept with a popular hot chick, like one of the Schetieny sisters. The other problem with choosing me for the focal point of his story is my sex life has never been much of secret. I used to bitch about being a virgin until I finally lost the damn thing at the mature age of 21. If I had lost my virginity that prom night the next morning I would have rented a plane and flown a banner letting the world know I got laid. Even if it was with Danny Lescht.

I shouldn't bitch I'm sure Danny's version of my first time was much better than how my first time actually went.

Friday, October 21, 2005

Parenta Parents

My mother and I were discussing the book deals that are going around. She thought I should catch one. I explained I have no book, nor book type material. She suggested some of the pieces I've posted here (of course edited for grammar, spelling and coherentness). I responded that these don't really have a theme that would tie them together for a book. She said, "Yes, they do. Random ramblings of a lunatic." We laughed.

I wondered if my own mother thinks I'm nuts, how am I ever going to get any of you people to think otherwise.

That's my parents-absurdly supportive. My folks would drive up to Boston to see me act in varying artsy fartsy Emerson productions--that is definitely going the extra mile. But after every show my father would say to me, "Wow, there are some really talented kids that go this school." Not me of course, but hey those talented kids' parents didn't come out to see the show.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

My baggage My Laundry

I read a sign in an eatery bathroom this evening. "Do not flush anything but toliet paper" I was like what am I supposed to do with this baby then?
This week I've been trapped in a closet with no computer, no phone, no windows but plenty of files. For $11.25/hr I staple and unstaple human resource files. This evening after performing two shows for no money I began to try to fold the items of my laundry and pack them into my carry-on suitcase. Why? So that I could bring said laundry over to my parents' house tomorrow. Turns out I have too much laundry, so I will be stumbling a half of mile to the B train at 8am tomorrow with a huge, heavy, bright- yellow bag filled with laundry. I will then transfer to the V train where I'll get off at the 53rd street station. It's here I'll get to carry this bag up three flights of stairs. Me and the bag will then limp down Madison Avenue 2 blocks where we will head up the elevator and make our way back to the closet.

Yes, it is easier to to do my laundry in my neigbhorhood, but I made a choice, laundry in the hood or trip to Central Europe. Plus, where's the work-out doing laundry locally?

ross's pix of our trip

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


Don't catch that bird flu going around, wash your hands regularly and don't rub your eyes.

A show I'm doing next week

ok . I'm performing at the reading series show, WYSIWYG, the 25th. This show sells out, so if you want to go you should buy tickets soon. Good thing most of you don't want to go.

This weekend I finished writing the rough draft of the essay I'll be reading at the show. My editors are having a go at it as I type and you read. I think there are two funny lines in the piece so come and see if you can figure out which one's they are. If you think I'm a little nutty now, wait until you hear this one.


Tuesday, October 25, at 7:30 p.m. at P.S. 122
150 1st Ave. at East 9th St.

Tickets are $7 — call P.S. 122 at 212-477-5288 for more information


Ed Hamilton (

Julia Langbein (

Liam McEneaney (

Rachael Parenta (

Chris Trent (

And a musical performance by
Chris Alonzo ( and
his band Ghost Runner (

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

The not so secret non-sex lives of bloggers

Quick. I must finish this blogpost before my date gets out of the bathroom.

Do you ever do that people? See what time some of your favorite bloggers posted and then try to summize from the time posted if they've had sex that night? I get so jealous when Margret Cho doesn't post until noon, I just know the reason she is posting so late is because she was with someone the night before. Why wasn't it me? Granted, I'm not into Korean chicks, or chicks really, but that doesn't mean I'm not into them being into me. Everyone should be into me. And not because I'm fabulous, but because I'm an only child and I'm used to it being all about me. Gay, straight, alive or dead you should be pining for yours truly, and definitely not sleeping with other people. Like Margret should have been trying to bed me, and after I finally confessed my actual preference she should have been so devestated that she couldn't go home with anyone else.

I don't know. I'm tired. And quick here comes my boy toy for the evening. Do you think it's a turn off to see your date at the computer obsessively blogging?
Here's a joke a friend wrote. She loathes it. I think it's hysterical. "I'm going to sell chicken and call it tuna of the land." That's friggin funny. I'm also a cornball who likes Mel Brooks.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Mildly Amusing Dating Fair

Last week I celebrated my one year anniversary of being dumped by a corporate lawyer. We dated about six weeks so it took me just about 8 months to get over it. I was mad at people who kept telling me to get over it. I'm like I'll get over it when those christians get over Jesus. All they talk about is Jesus this and Jesus that. He died nearly 2000 years ago, come on! Move on already. Most of you never even met him! They go to their churches where they have all these pictures and statues of him just waiting for him to come back. He's not coming back. He's gone. It's over. The whole thing just isn't healthy.

I celebrated my dumping by performing some of the old jokes I wrote about the fellow. Though, I did not perform this one, "This guy just broke up with me, he said there was "awkward tension." Awkward tension, huh. Maybe that's because when you were 15 I was one. (I'd scream the "I was one" line into the mic for dramatic and comedic effect.) for more material based off said gentleman caller click
or click on this one

I have to say that the older guys I date (the ones 10+ years older than me) are in much better shape the the ones who are my age. That even goes for my single friends who are in there late twenties/ early thirties. I'm like guys you better hurray up and find someone or else you're going to have to get a gym membership and actually go to the gym! If you're single I don't think you can be old and pudgy. You can still be poor, though -- women really will date anyone.

It's one thing to be poor but another to be cheap. If you invite me out for a drink have enough cash to tip properly. $1 tip for three drinks doesn't cut it. I hate having to pretend I left my purse at the bar so I can slighly leave a proper tip, because I don't have a purse--and it makes me look schitzophranic.
Sometimes boys confuse battering a girl's ego with breaking her heart. If she's carrying on about you, it doesn't necessarily mean she really liked you. Usually it has more to do with her ego. She's like, "I can't believe he broke up with me! Who does he think he is? He doesn't even have is own teeth. He was my rebound guy. I was supposed to break up with him in like a week when my ego was sufficiently repaired. Bastard." I saw a girl last week make snide non-specific comments infront of a dude she once dated. I thought it was funny because I know the dude thought she still wasn't over him. But really it was just her ego getting all huffy at the sight of him.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Thank God Jews don't have Hell

I feel I've been very Jewy these last few days and there's no stopping me now.

The Jewish people just finished observing Yom Kippur. I use the word observe rather than celebrate because it's not really festive holiday. It's a holiday that really allows the jewish people to do what they do best--self loathe. However, I think it would be more fun if we did celebrate our atonement. Get together at the syngague with pound of coke. That's right snorting coke isn't eating nor drinking, and it helps with the fasting. We could all run around temple gleefully, "Hey God, I've sinned all year and what a year it was. Yeehaw! Pass me another line, baby." I think more Jews should use the word 'Yeehaw.' Instead of casting bread into a body of water we could cast cards out on the kitchen table while playing sin 'go fish.'
"Do you have adultery?"
"Go fish"
"What am I jesus?"
"I thought he was a carpenter?"
"what'd he say?"
"Don't worry about it just keep playing."
"Do you have bearing false witness?"
"Hells yeah! Man, March seems like only yesterday when I bore false witness to get on Judge Judy. I bore false witness against my neighbor, Saul the Tailor. But Lord I see how that hurt Saul and his family. The benefits of a tv credit do not out way the pain and suffering I caused. They had to shell out $750 to Sheldon. I have to admit now on the holiest days I never saw anyone make fun of Sheldon for wearing nut-huggers. In fact I must admit I never saw Sheldon wearing nut-huggers and but I lied and said I saw the awful inseem job Saul had done. I won't do it again. Unless Oprah calls. But even god would sin for some time with Oprah. Right Yahweh. Ohh yeah"

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

What's your Name again?

This evening, whilst performing the stand-up comedy in the East Village of New York, I ran into a dude I had once socialized with several months ago. We did the "oh what a small world" thing and exchanged pleasantries. Hours later, after his departure, I received a phone call from this same 24 year old gentleman who proceeded to break up with me. "Look, I just wanted to call and apologize for not calling you sooner, but ahh I'm not looking for anything romantic, but I think you're great ahh..." yadda yadda,
"Listen, John-"
"It's Jake."
"Right ah Jake. Um...Dude, we made out like one time in July. " I didn't know if that was the right time to confess I had been cheating on him these last 2.5 months. I figured best to let it lie. He was finally ending our relationship I didn't think I needed to compound the hurt with the truth. I'll just have to bear the guilt of my deception.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Orange Alert Just in Time for Fall Foliage

The NYC subway system is under "Orange" alert. Why? The London Underground it ain't. NYC's subway is not some well oiled machine with regularly running trains at all. Hell, the trains don't even always travel along the routes that are depicted on the maps. How can you blow up a train if you can't even find it? How can you blow up the subway when your above ground on a shuttle bus from Park Street to Atlantic Avenue? Let's put this way I speak English and I don't even get this: The #2 and #3 Trains in the nyc subway system run up 7th avenue in Manhattan. The #4 and #5 trains run up Lexington Avenue. Due to maintance or construction the #2 train will be running up Lexington Avenue. Fine. OK. And the #5 train will be running up 7th Avenue. Huh? Are they maintaining a ghost track. If they are keeping trains running on both tracks why are they swithching the routes?

I have a feeling if the terrorists figure this shit not many of us will notice.

Monday, October 10, 2005

What's new on Friendster

This is actually old news. But here's my little anecdote on the subject.

What's new on Friendster? Well, now all of a sudden you can now see who has viewed your profile. Which means people will know if you've viewed their profile--expressed interest in their existance. Yeah, so when I learned this I had a mild flip out. See the friendster people didn't give us any warning of thier plans to strip our anonymity. Instead, I log in one day and BAM! I could see the last 50 people who viewed my profile. Which means that everyone else on friendster could see if I had viewed their profile in the last month and half. I don't need this. I thought. "Shit did I ever get drunk one night and search for Brian Moon? If he sees that I've viewed his profile he'll think I still want to marry him." And I don't. I'm totally over him. Really I am. Sure I used to call him every day and tell him we were going to get married. But I'm over it. I was over it 22 years ago when he got placed in Mrs. Levy's first grade class and I got placed in Mrs. Rutherford's first grade class. Out of sight out of mind. OK not completely out of mind, but out heart. I've moved on. Sure I was upset that maybe he never viewed my profile. But I guess we never really dated. We just kind of talked on the phone. Or rather, I would talk...about our wedding plans.

I have a feeling I wasn't alone in my feelings of betrayal by the friendster. I think that maybe some 1000 or so internet stalkers complained because a couple of days later Friendster gave us the option of searching friendster anonymously. Whew! But I did not take friendster up on this option right away. One day bored at work (yes, I'm bored at work everyday but one particular day) I was searching friendster to see if any indie-rockstar types were signed up with the website. I found several including Mike Doughty, Stephen Merritt, Jeff Magnus, and Sean Eden guitar player for my favorite band Luna. Sean's profile read that he was looking for women to date. I thought about sending Mr. Sean Eden a little friendster message. I never grew the balls to actually send a message. But I never forgot he was on Friendster. So when this see who viewed your profile option became available on the friendster I viewed his profile openly. This way he'd see that Rachael Parenta had looked at his profile, then, hopefully, he'd get curious about the people who viewed his profile and go view their profile. He'd then see my picture and my witty little answers and fall madly in love with me and ask me out.

My plan had several problems, mostly having to do with the answers posted on my profile. 1st off their aren't many witty answers they are pretty straight forward. Secondly, my profile says I'm in a relationship. Which as you all know I am, with Jack. But I was hoping Jack wouldn't mind if I went on a date or two with the guitarist from one of my favorite bands. The other problem is that I wrote Luna (his band) in my answer to music I like. Well, no one dates their fans. (No one except Dudley Moore.) Fans don't love you for you. They love you for your art, and let's face it I'm no different. The only reason I have any interest in this guy is because he plays music I like. I don't know anything about this Sean Eden accept he's 40, a Pisces, and hasn't logged into friendster in 5 months. And that's the other rub. If he's not using the friendster he'll never know I looked him up and there falls the plan. God Damn you Friendster! And god damn BearStearns and all the other mindless temp jobs that have lead me into internet temptation.

If you have somewhat of a life and don't know what friendster is I'm sorry I can't explain it. Not because it's awesome, because it's not. Really it's pretty lame and pointless. But what else am I going to do? Get work done? Pshaw.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Advice for the Ladies

Last week I thought I had no advice for the ladies regarding the getting laid. Well, nearly a week has passed and things have changed. I have a definite "Don't" for the straight women. However, I think this is a definite "DO" for all you female lady lovers out there.

Say it's a Friday evening and you're thinking, "Yeah, I could go for some sex tonight." You should most certainly leave your apartment and go where the people are. However, do NOT go to the all female folk show. Yes, the music might be enjoyable, but a straight girl not likely to get any action. Say you forget this advice. Make sure you do not compound your mistake by cowardly not pursuing the male muscians who are backing up the female folkies. Go ahead ask your folk singer acquantance, who invited you to the show, to introduce you to her mildly attractive, male base-player. 'Cuz that's the straight guy who isn't on a date at the show. You need to talk to him. Don't leave until you speak to him! Or else you're going home alone. Then you'll have to ask if this show was really worth a $6 cover and $7 class of shitty house red?" If you're not going to pursue the bass player and his kind it's probably best for straight, concupiscent women to avoid the folk show.

Friday, October 07, 2005

"a little crazy"

How can you not hear them? I hear them loud and clear? Both sides of the argument on whether Coehler's Alchemist is shit. Todd is definitely pro Coehler and Zefer decididely against. I shut my door and close my eyes to sleep but they don't go away. They just keep debating and debating. Repeating the same arguments over and over again. How can no one else hear that that? It keeps me up all night. And when I don't get sleep I begin to levitate. The less sleep I get the less effect gravity has on my body. Which sure was cool at first, but I have stuff to get done on here on the ground. I've begged them to please be quite, please stop talking just for a few hours. Do you know how hard it is to type right now? They don't seem to need to get sleep. Maybe that's how they don't age. But I know that if I don't get sleep soon they'll fire me from my job, I can't type and answer phones while I'm floating near the ceiling. The weights I use at home to keep myself pinned to the furniture are no longer allowed on the subway. I can't believe they don't behave like this around others.

Years ago when Todd and Zefer first appeared they talked only a couple of hours a day on all types of topics. They even showed me how to build a rocketship. We were all set to lauch ourselves into the 23 and 1/2 century when we realized we had no fuel and Zefer was unable to attain any. Too bad too. I thought the plan ingenius, not only would we be leaving earth but we'd also be leaving this century, this time period. Ever since the rocket fuel debacle the boys haven't been the same. They've gone from shy people, who only spoke when the three of us were together, to excruitiatingly loud chatty kathies obsessed with this stupid book.

Yes, Todd it is a stupid book. No, Zefer I'm not on your side, because the book is so stupid that there's no need to even respond to his arguments. Sure discussing literature is a fine way to spend one's time conversing, and two hours on one book seems sufficient. But it's been 60 days of not stop chatter. It's not as if you are talking about Hamlet, with all it's themes and character studies, not mention it's place in theatre history. Was Hamlet really crazy or was it just an act? Did his own pretense drive Ophelia to madness or was she always a little loopy?

OH MY GOD SHUT UP! I was talking about Hamlet! Not talking about whether that shepard boy should have taken the oasis girl to the pyramids with him in that retarded book. You know what? I don't have answer to that question. You're not going to pull me into this world of insanity. Who am I to call anyone insane? Hey you both can go screw.

Oh you meant, who is anyone to call anyone else crazy? You're saying someone could call me crazy because I'm highly emotive. Since the world affects me and I have shown little ability to remain stoic in the face of emotional stimuli I may give off the impression that I'm a "little crazy." And if you two happened to have been affected by a best selling novel is that any different than those people who line up at midnight to by the latest operating system from microsoft? At least that's a new topic to discuss. How about I sleep on it? Dude, it's nearing 2am. Please just let me sleep. What? I don't know. I don't know if it's crazy to communicate with two guys that no one else acknowledges. I promise I'll answer you tomorrow.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Not Again!

Just to prove that my story regarding my attendance to a gender revealing party this past spring I'm posting the e-vite to yet another one. This time it's hosted by her sister who recently found herself pregnant. Read previous post

Location: Mica & Anthony DeSantis's House , CT deleted
When: Saturday, December 3, 2:00pm
Phone: deleted

Is it a boy or girl?!?!?!?!? Come on over on December 3rd and find out! For those of you who haven't heard...we are thrilled to let you know that we are expecting a baby in April! We would love for you to join us when we find out what it's going to be. We will not know the answer either...we will reveal during the party. So - come on by for food, drinks, games, and some fun. To make it extra fun...please wear pink or blue (whatever you think the baby is going to be). Hope everyone can make it! Please pass this along to anyone we may have missed. Can't wait!

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

For the New Year

My mother and her sibblings were raised in the Jewish Faith. But that didn't stop my mother and her two brothers from marrying Catholics. My mom's sister didn't marry as the government has forbidden it. Which I agree with. Insane people should not marry, but some of my aunt's ex-girlfriends are lovely people and I hope they've found sane people to share their lives with. I can out my 67 year old aunt as 67 because she doesn't read the blog.

My parents raised me Jewish and gave me my father's Italian last name. My one uncle married a woman who was half Italian half Greek. They raised their three daughters Catholic and gave them his Jewish last name-- see people America really is a melting pot of ethnic confusion. Just to make this clear my three cousins are 1/2 Jewish 1/4 Greek and 1/4 Italian. When my aunt and uncle christened their first child they invited the whole family to the ceremony to celebrate my cousin's avoidance of hell--well, reprieve until she had her first impure thought. During the ceremony the Priest gave the usual rote speech that included the phrase, "...And may there be no Jews or Greeks amoung us." Which was funny because he was surrounded by Greeks and Jews. In fact non-Greeks and non-Jews were the minorities. You'd think the priest might have thought of cutting that line when he discovered he'd be performing the Isaacson Christening. But I guess he was pretty serious about this because after he said it, he removed the effigies of effigies of Jesus and Mary from the church.

Shana Tova everyone, (or is it Shona Tova I really don't know how to spell hebrew in English.--which reminds me of another story.)

So my mother spelled my name Rachael as opposed to the more widely used spelling Rachel (notice the extra 'A' in mom's spelling.) She did this because that's how she thought the name was spelled. She had no other reason. The rabbi at the Reform Synagagoue we belonged to scolded my mother for her choice in spelling. He said it wasn't the Jewish spelling. First off, my parents joined the Temple when I was five, did he expect them to change my name after five years? Secondly, did I miss a meeting or a hebrew school class? Since when did the ancient Hebrews speak or write in English? The name Rachael, however you choose to spell it, is the Anglican pronunciation of a Hebrew name which I can't spell because I dont' have a Hebrew keyboard. Hell, the old Jews didn't even communicate in Latin or Greek which were the first languages the Torah was translated into. Then from those translations some English dude or monk or someone took those texts and translated them into English--Old English, (maybe middle English cut me some slack, I can't be that bright I'm only half a Jew.) By that time the Torah and Bible had already sold out, gone completely commercial--placing subtle ads for the Roman Empire. The religious guys who wear funny clothing edited the thing down, way down. Any divinity that may had once been there was now far gone.

Really the Rabbi was annoyed that my parents were a "mixed" marriage. Funny he disapproved of my mother's marriage. She has been married over 30 years to the same man. In fact both her brothers continue to be married to their goy wives. Meanwhile the Rabbi was divorced and remarried. Look, divorce happens and I'm not judging it well, I am but only in respect to Rabbi Franzel. And you'd think a Rabbi with his continuing study of a holy text would have found some solutions to the problems he's faced with his first wife. If a Rabbi can't find aid from his religion then how should anyone else be expected to? And no, the Jewish faith does not forbid divorce nor call it a sin. However, it does frown upon it. Jews can't just divorce on a whim. They've got to go through this whole rig-a-maroll and get a get, basically you can get a divorced but it's as much of a bitch as being married. Yet, there is nothing in the Talmud or Torah that discusses holy spelling.

Enjoy the Fast next week.